


Welcome To My Nightmare

by GoodGollyMissYollie (Yollie183)



Series: Ride The Lightning [4]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Nightmares, Suicidal Thoughts, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 08:57:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7678123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yollie183/pseuds/GoodGollyMissYollie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers works for a discreet private security company and gets assigned to James Barnes, a musician who takes the idea of 'sex, drugs & rock 'n roll' just a little too seriously.</p><p>*** THIS IS A COMPANION WORK TO <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/6756670/chapters/15441367">Goddamn Electric</a> ***</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome To My Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So, I asked the wonderful people who are reading my fic [Goddamn Electric](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6756670/chapters/15441367) if they wanted scenes from Bucky's POV, and this is that!  
> Please go read that if you haven't yet, I fear this doesn't make too much sense out of context :(
> 
> Title is from the album of the same name by Alice Cooper. The lyrics at the beginning give a glimpse into Steve's thoughts and feelings, just like the lyrics in Goddamn Electric (which is from Steve's POV) are Bucky's. (I like symmetry, okay?)

_All my life_

_Been running from a pain in me_

_A feeling I don't understand_

_Holding me down_

_Rain on me_

_Underwater_

_All I am, getting harder_

_A heavy weight_

_I carry around._

_Today_

_I don't have to fall apart_

_I don't have to be afraid_

_I don't have to let the damage_

_consume me,_

_My shadow see through me_

_Fear in itself_

_Will reel you in and spit you out_

_Over and over again_

_Believe in yourself_

_And you will walk_

_Fear in itself_

_Will use you up and break you down_

_like you were never enough_

_I used to fall, now I get back up._

_I'm up here_

_I'm looking at the way down there_

_I'm staring through the I don't care_

_It's staring back at me_

_The beauty is_

_I'm learning how to face my beast_

_Starting now to find some peace_

_Set myself free_

_I'm moving on_

_Oh god just move on_

_Today,_

_I don't have to fall apart_

_I don't have to be afraid...._

_Get back up_

_Get up_

_Fear in itself will use you up_

_And break you down just like you're_

_never enough_

_I used to fall_

_Breathe,_

_Ask for more_

_if you're bitter still_

_Ask him to help you carry on._

_\- Fear, Blue October_

~

Moscow was there to welcome Bucky into its cold embrace, and he tried to avoid thinking too much of his first glimpses of the city, all those years ago, as they drove to the guesthouse where they would stay. Snatches of memory still pulled at his mind, though. The rumble of a truck and smell of gasoline, the terrified whispers of a girl just barely older than he was, the feeling of icy water on his skin followed by calloused hands.

The guesthouse was nice and he welcomed the distraction of board games and the loud voices of his bandmates. Then there was Steve, a constant presence always not-quite in his periphery. Steve unsettled him. He seemed… good. Good in a way Bucky had never encountered before. Even Wade, the best person he knew, had moments of blinding rage and kept his anger hidden behind lies and jokes. But Steve was all on the surface, and deep down to his bones, nothing dark or angry hidden inside, nothing scary, nothing grasping, or taking more than what was offered. Nothing but just _good._ There were moments, Bucky saw, where Steve looked melancholy, but Bucky could tell it was a remnant of his military days, not a sign of something worse.

Steve was perplexing, troubling.

 

As the hours in Moscow wore on, a familiar itch began beneath Bucky’s skin.

It started in the club, the one they went to after their first show, when the man saw him. Bucky just barely pulled himself out of a flashback when recognition rocked through him. He didn’t bother to put up a fight as Steve got between him and the man shouting painful truths at him. The words echoed in his thoughts, even after Steve followed him into the night air. _Whore, dirty whore…_

When they got back to the guesthouse Bucky grabbed the first bottle he saw and escaped Steve’s worried eyes as quickly as he could. He drank until he couldn’t think straight, then curled into a ball on the hardwood floor, chewing on the insides of his cheeks to keep the sobs quiet. He didn’t sleep, didn’t even try to, just did his best to ignore the whispers running like fingers down his skin.

_So pretty, Jimmy, such a pretty boy, such a good boy, Jimmy. On your knees now, Jimmy, just like that, good boy. It feels good, doesn’t it, Jimmy?_

 

The next day was a mess for Bucky, struggling to stay inside his own skin. He did his best to slip into the rock star persona, keep up the façade of being just fine. That night he curled up on the floor again with another bottle, and when sleep came, it brought dreams of cold and snow and a wickedly sharp blade severing his skin from flesh. He woke with a scream lodged in his throat, shivering violently, his teeth hurting from chattering so hard. He pulled himself up, jerkily, his mind foggy, and tugged off his jeans and shirt, then pulled on the warmest clothes he had, as well as a pair of thick socks. It helped some, but he didn’t feel remotely warm until he’d stumbled into the kitchen and made himself tea. The hot liquid burned his tongue, but it warmed his aching body and he breathed a sigh of relief. He was drinking his second mug of tea when Steve trudged into the kitchen, flushed, his t-shirt damp with sweat.

“Hey,” Bucky said quietly, “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Yeah,” Steve rasped as he got a glass of ice water. Bucky shivered again at the sight.

“Would you like tea instead?” he asked Steve, slightly worried now.

Steve shook his head. Bucky watched the other man’s throat work as he drank the icy water, before he spoke.

“Water’s good, but thanks anyway.”

Bucky cocked and eyebrow, taking in the little details as Steve finished his water. The way his eyes were a little hollow, his features painted with sadness and guilt, the drop of sweat rolling from his hairline down to his jaw, the way his skin was flushed, as if he’d been out in the sun too long.

“Wanna talk about it?” Bucky asked, because seeing Steve be not-okay rankled something deep in his chest.

Steve turned away from him, an edge to his voice as he replied. “Talk about what?”

“Whatever has you stumbling into the kitchen, looking like hell, at two in the morning.”

Steve’s entire body went rigid, then he lifted his shoulders in a shrug. There was a tense silence where Bucky wanted to reach out and place a hand on that broad, tense back. _Don’t touch, Jimmy._

“Steve?” Bucky asked, putting down his mug, and moved toward Steve, who jerked into action like someone had slapped him.

“It’s nothing. Drop it,” Steve snapped, and Bucky flinched a little as Steve stormed out of the kitchen.

Bucky looked down at the floor, biting down into the already torn flesh of his cheek.

_Idiot, you made him angry. You’re so useless, so pitiful. Can’t do anything right, can you? You were never any good unless you were on your knees, Jimmy, why even bother getting up?_

Bucky went back to his room and sat down on the floor. He looked down at his forearm, where the metal-plate tattoo covered the scars on his wrist. He remembered what they looked like. Tiny white lines, criss-crossing each other, delicate and almost invisible. He knew it would ruin the tattoo if he opened them again, and it was one of the reasons he’d gotten it in the first place. He sighed, swallowing against the lump in his throat. Why did they bother to keep him around? The band would do just as well with someone else fronting it. A real person, not a mess of flesh and scars and ink, which was all Bucky really was. It hurt, but it must be the truth. Brock could sing just as well as him, play guitar even better. They could get by without him. Bucky looked at his right arm, the whole one, the one without tattoos, the one without scars. He still wanted to get a sleeve done for it, as soon as he found the right art, the right artist. Maybe that would be okay. Maybe they wouldn’t mind too much, putting up with him for a few more months. Just until he’d gotten the sleeve done. Bucky shuddered a little. He really wanted to read the new Harry Potter script they were publishing too, he could wait a little while, wait for that, and for the tattoo, and find a good home for Fred, and then he could rid the band, the world, of himself. He thought of Steve’s blue eyes. Steve could go home, then, back to his own life. He wouldn’t need to put up with Bucky being useless and not good for anything then. The thought soothed Bucky a little, and he curled up on the floor again, letting soft, dreamless sleep wash over him.

 

The next day started out with a razor sharp comment from Brock, that cut Bucky to the bone. The next thing he knew he was outside, blinking in the sunlight, hating himself for ever sharing that deepest, darkest bit of himself with Brock.

He turned on Steve, who’d followed him outside.

“Fuck off!” The words hurt on their way out.

“Not gonna do that, Buck,” Steve replied, calmly.

Bucky wanted him to be angry again, to leave him alone again.

“Yes, you are! You take orders from me.” _Orders, Jimmy? You’re barely able to follow orders, how can you think you deserve to give them?_

“I don’t take orders from anyone,” Steve said, still not angry, his features filled with… concern? “What happened in there?”

Bucky couldn’t answer, so he walked away, balling his hands into fists in his pockets. He felt off-balance, a little sick even. Steve was still with him, and Bucky turned into a bookstore without really realizing it, until the smell of ink and wood pulp pulled him back to equilibrium. He loved books, had found peace and escape, meaning and faith in the written word his whole life. So he put on the charm as a shop assistant approached him, and started picking out books to add to his collection. He even picked up a couple of his own favourites to give to Steve. It made him feel a little better, and he could almost breathe freely again as he left the shop.

“Need a hand?” Steve asked him outside, and Bucky handed him a bag.

“Thanks,” he said, a little subdued, then pointed at a café. “Wanna get coffee?”

“I… yeah, sure.”

The café was quiet, and cosy. Bucky held out his other bag to Steve.

“Grab us a table, I’ll order.”

Steve took the bag with a nod.

“Black coffee, right?”

“Yeah,” Steve looked surprised. “How’d you know?”

Bucky gave an eye roll, but he did feel a little pleased. “I do pay attention sometimes.”

It made Steve smile as he turned away, and Bucky felt a sudden lightness in his chest as he went to order coffee for Steve, a latte for himself and ptichie moloko for both of them. When he got back to the table, Steve was drawing something in a hardcover book. He took the bags off the chair next to Steve, not wanting to sit with his back to the café’s large windows. When their coffee arrived, Steve put the sketchbook down and Bucky immediately snatched it up. There was a sketch of an old woman, and Bucky’s eyes widened. It was beautiful.

“Why have I never seen you draw before?” he asked, still taking in the tiny details in the pencil work.

“I haven’t drawn anything in years,” Steve said. It seemed a great pity to Bucky. All that beauty that didn’t exist. He put down the sketchbook and ate his cake, allowing himself to hope that maybe Steve would never stop drawing again, that he’d bring more beauty like that into existence. Maybe, if he was lucky, Steve could draw something just for him. He’d frame it and put it up on a wall in his apartment.

“So…” Steve broke the silence, “that song that Rumlow mentioned…”

Bucky stilled. “It’s not…” he hesitated. How could he tell Steve about _that?_ About Jimmy and all the things that he couldn’t forget, no matter how drunk or high he got. The hands he could feel on his skin, all these years later, no matter how many strangers he shared his body with.

Finally, he decided on a half-truth.

“It’s just Brock being a dick. He knows there are songs I’d never perform. He likes taunting me.”

Steve’s brows pulled together. “I don’t get it. You obviously don’t get along. Why not just…”

“Replace him?”

Well, yeah.”

_Because you’re the one they should replace, Jimmy. You’re only good at one thing, and it’s not music._

Bucky snorted, trying to push the voice out of his head, to stay in the moment with Steve. “You’ve heard him play, right? Where are we ever gonna find anyone as talented again? Nah. Besides, the friction works when we’re writing. Adds fuel to the ‘creative fire’ and all that.” And he knows the bad thing, Bucky didn’t add, he’ll tell everyone if he’s kicked out.

Steve gave a small smile. “I’ve seen you play, too. You’re easily as good as him.”

“Gee, thanks, Mr I-don’t-know-what-Pantera-is.” But the compliment bloomed warm in Bucky’s chest.

“Doesn’t mean I’m wrong,” Steve said, rolling his eyes.

“Look,” Bucky licked the last marshmallow off his fork, “I’m not bad, but I can’t play lead.”

“Because?” Steve pulled his cake out of Bucky’s reach as he tried to snatch it.

“Because I have nerve damage in my left arm.”

“Oh,” Steve’s pulled a puppy dog face. “I didn’t know, I’m sorry.”

“Spare me the fucking pity,” Bucky retorted.

“Fine,” Steve said, sharply.

They glared at each other for a second, while Bucky struggled to find a way to make things okay again. Finally, he settled on stealing Steve’s cake off his plate and taking a bite.

Steve gave a pout, his eyes going wide and puppy-like, which made Bucky grin again. He took another bite of the cake and replaced it on the plate, happy that Steve ate it, instead of pushing it away in disgust.

“Steve,” Bucky started, “until when, exactly, are you gonna be babysitting me?”

“End of September. Why?”

Bucky tried to hide his disappointment. “Thought it might be longer.”

“Don’t worry,” Steve finished his coffee and started packing up his purchases, “you’ll be rid of me before you know it.”

“Yeah.” Then Steve could go back to his life, his home, and not have to put up with useless, good for nothing Bucky. Steve will be happy to be rid of him and Bucky wasn’t allowed to be sad about it.

Then he spotted Ilya, framed in the café window, and his blood ran cold as ice.

He remembered, vividly, Ilya’s body over his, his hands rough, voice grunting insults as he thrust into him, cruelly, viciously. _We have to sample the merchandise, Yasha._

Bucky pulled himself out of the memory, knowing he needed to _act_ , and act well, or he may as well stay right there in Moscow when the band left.

“Come on, Rogers, time to earn your pay check.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading (also, comments and kudos are welcomed with open arms and hypothetical marshmallow)!!! Remember to subscribe to the SERIES, not this work, to be notified of updates, since I post each new one separately.


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